This afternoon I accompanied a good friend to a big bridal expo (she's already found love in 2011 and is getting all gussied up to sign up for a lifetime of indentured servitude). I went along for research purposes: if I want to get love, I need to see what love looks like.
Evidently love looks like a bunch of seemingly intelligent women who are perfectly ok with going into bankruptcy for overpriced photos, dresses, flowers and dry chicken, but I digress.
While I was at said expo, I struck up a conversation with a cute white guy with an overabundance of energy and a penchant for gyrating his hips every time he heard an eight count. He was working one of the booths and very friendly. My girlfriend walked away to look at cupcakes shaped like hearts, leaving me with the man with boyish charm and dashing good looks that sparked small glitterkisses from tiny fairies every time he smiled. Anywho, he and I struck up a seemingly insignifigant conversation while I waited for my friend to return.
As I was talking, Mr. Boy-Next-Door-for-Women-over-35 maintained a steady hip gyrate and kept kissing my right hand. After about 20 minutes of such foolishness, he says,
"So, can I have your number?"
Which prompts me to ask, "Are you being serious?"
So here's the deal. He's a stripper. And, a stripper for a very well-known group of dancers. The kind of stripper women squeal over and toss their bras on stage for. The kind of stripper that stays on retainer for sorority parties. The kind of stripper who owns velcro leather pants for easy removal.
Great.
But, maintaining my own rules, I say "sure." and give him the digits.
So here's the deal. I'm intrigued. But, I have about a 10% return rate for numbers given out versus men who call.
Could love be lurking around the corner of an episode of Pantsoff Danceoff? We shall see.
Evelyn Parkside
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Saved by a Technical
So my rules may already be gearing up to bite me in the ass.
I recently went out to lunch with a girlfriend from work. Lunch itself was totally uneventful. After lunch, however, Cupid himself (that peevish imp) shot a dart right into the wandering eye of a very tall gentleman who spied us walking in the parking lot back to the car.
Something about me told him that he needed to say hello.
He approaches and begins walking alongside my friend and me.
"Hello, sista," he says.
"Hello," I reply back.
He keeps talking. I have no idea what he said next because I was mesmerized by his mouth.
It was missing all of its upper teeth.
All. Of. Its. Upper. Teeth.
ALL of its upper teeth.
Though my eyes were focused on the fact that his mouth effectively modeled a black hole, my feet were smart enough to quicken up the pace to the car.
I remember him asking, "Do you work around here" and "Will I see you here tomorrow"and me sputtering out as quickly as I could "I don't think so" while my main goal was to get to the car.
See, here's the problem (ok, let's keep it real, there are many problems with this entire situation): my first rule is that I would give my number to whomever asked. So, it became critically important to get out of his phone-number-asking-radius before he could a) ask, or b) spit some kind of food from his mouth on me as he was missing the ever-critical barrier between mouth and outside world: his teeth.
I burrowed my head down low and focused on the car door. I could hear my friend sniggering. Fifteen steps away. Ten. Five. One. Opening the door.
"Can I give you..." I hear him ask, just as I'm sliding in the car and shutting the door.
Safe. The crown--oops crowd--goes wild.
Saved by a technical.
But, more than anything, I'm wondering what is is about me that made him think that I would ever, eva, eva eva eva eva eva spend time with Frankenteeth. Whatever that is, I need to fix. Today.
I recently went out to lunch with a girlfriend from work. Lunch itself was totally uneventful. After lunch, however, Cupid himself (that peevish imp) shot a dart right into the wandering eye of a very tall gentleman who spied us walking in the parking lot back to the car.
Something about me told him that he needed to say hello.
He approaches and begins walking alongside my friend and me.
"Hello, sista," he says.
"Hello," I reply back.
He keeps talking. I have no idea what he said next because I was mesmerized by his mouth.
It was missing all of its upper teeth.
All. Of. Its. Upper. Teeth.
ALL of its upper teeth.
Though my eyes were focused on the fact that his mouth effectively modeled a black hole, my feet were smart enough to quicken up the pace to the car.
I remember him asking, "Do you work around here" and "Will I see you here tomorrow"and me sputtering out as quickly as I could "I don't think so" while my main goal was to get to the car.
See, here's the problem (ok, let's keep it real, there are many problems with this entire situation): my first rule is that I would give my number to whomever asked. So, it became critically important to get out of his phone-number-asking-radius before he could a) ask, or b) spit some kind of food from his mouth on me as he was missing the ever-critical barrier between mouth and outside world: his teeth.
I burrowed my head down low and focused on the car door. I could hear my friend sniggering. Fifteen steps away. Ten. Five. One. Opening the door.
"Can I give you..." I hear him ask, just as I'm sliding in the car and shutting the door.
Safe. The crown--oops crowd--goes wild.
Saved by a technical.
But, more than anything, I'm wondering what is is about me that made him think that I would ever, eva, eva eva eva eva eva spend time with Frankenteeth. Whatever that is, I need to fix. Today.
The Question: "Can We Get Married in the next Three Weeks?"
The answer: "Um, no."
So in my quest for finding love in 2011, I am making good on my promise to 1) give my number to whomever asks and 2) give everyone who asks me out one fair shot. Why? Because according to the internet I'm single and every year my chances of finding love decrease every hour.
Tonight I had a date. Honestly, it was pretty uneventful. Well, uneventful if you consider me being asked to elope in the next month; having to ignore a true hottie-mctottie who kept staring at me; and, being asked if I minded being woken up for sex after 11:00 pm.
My date, the schlump, was a nice guy. Nice, but clearly wife-hunting (which he also reminded me was his duty by God and I, evidently, am the Eve to his Adam). While I'm all about eternal love til' death do us part, my benchmarks for marriage are as follows:
Q1) If we were being chased by a wild black bear while hiking in Vermont, are you strong enough to stave off said bear while I run for the car?
A1) I don't think so. The schlump is kind of chubby, which is ok, so I think he would be good chewin' for the bear, but not really a match in terms of sheer, brute strength.
Q2) Could I imagine myself kissing you with my eyes open?
A2) Definitely not. I can't even imagine myself imagining you kissing me without breaking out into hives.
Q3) Are you crazy like a loon or crazy like a fox.
A3) I'm going with crazy like a loon for this one, referenced by the serious question about us eloping and the hinting around that I might be "cooking dinner and spending the night" in the next week or so.
Disregarding all of that, the date was better than I expected.
Verdict: Not in love yet, but there are still 300+ days in 2011.
So in my quest for finding love in 2011, I am making good on my promise to 1) give my number to whomever asks and 2) give everyone who asks me out one fair shot. Why? Because according to the internet I'm single and every year my chances of finding love decrease every hour.
Tonight I had a date. Honestly, it was pretty uneventful. Well, uneventful if you consider me being asked to elope in the next month; having to ignore a true hottie-mctottie who kept staring at me; and, being asked if I minded being woken up for sex after 11:00 pm.
My date, the schlump, was a nice guy. Nice, but clearly wife-hunting (which he also reminded me was his duty by God and I, evidently, am the Eve to his Adam). While I'm all about eternal love til' death do us part, my benchmarks for marriage are as follows:
Q1) If we were being chased by a wild black bear while hiking in Vermont, are you strong enough to stave off said bear while I run for the car?
A1) I don't think so. The schlump is kind of chubby, which is ok, so I think he would be good chewin' for the bear, but not really a match in terms of sheer, brute strength.
Q2) Could I imagine myself kissing you with my eyes open?
A2) Definitely not. I can't even imagine myself imagining you kissing me without breaking out into hives.
Q3) Are you crazy like a loon or crazy like a fox.
A3) I'm going with crazy like a loon for this one, referenced by the serious question about us eloping and the hinting around that I might be "cooking dinner and spending the night" in the next week or so.
Disregarding all of that, the date was better than I expected.
Verdict: Not in love yet, but there are still 300+ days in 2011.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Iron Pimp
So three days ago I met two guys: one of which I liked, one of which was a schlump. I gave them both my number. Because the cosmos takes great pleasure in making my love life as difficult as possible, of course the guy I actually liked has not called. The schlump, however, has called eight times and sent at least five text messages.
The schlump also thinks I'm Jill Scott. I have had to tell him three times that I, indeed, am not Jill Scott: I do not sing, I do not act and I am not from Philly. I do have big hair and hips, but the resemblance stops there.
During our first twenty-five minute conversation, I got a bit concerned. First, he told me that he planned on being married in the next year and that he was tired of having girlfriends. Then, he told me that he wanted two more kids. Yes, more. He also thought I was twenty-five, which was a bit unsettling after he told me that his daughter is twenty-one.
He told me that the Lord had brought us together. He said that, "The Bible says that when a man finds a good woman, he finds a good thing. See, you was just sittin' outside the valet, waiting to be found and I found you." I stopped myself from retorting, "I wasn't lost."
He then told me that he had gotten into an argument with a friend of his--also 41--who idolizes Jill Scott. He idolizes her so much that he has posters on his wall, "like a thirteen year old girl." Sigh. The friend tells the schlump that he'd better be careful and that I'm still fair game, because we're not a couple, yet. Sigh. This is the point where the schump tells me that he's going to make an honest woman out of me. Sigh again.
Fast forward to our second conversation.
The schlump asks me to go out this Thursday. Sticking to my rules, I obliged. He suggests a Neo-Soul lounge. I oblige again. Though this would not be my first choice, I'm going along.
That's when the conversation went from bad to worse:
"Um, I need to tell you something," the schlump says.
"Yes?" I reply, wondering what could possibly come next.
"I don't have a car. I"ll have to take the bus." He answers.
Alas, he will have to take the iron pimp to meet me on our first date. At forty-one.
Long, lingering sigh. I reach for a bottle of Pinot Noir.
M
The schlump also thinks I'm Jill Scott. I have had to tell him three times that I, indeed, am not Jill Scott: I do not sing, I do not act and I am not from Philly. I do have big hair and hips, but the resemblance stops there.
During our first twenty-five minute conversation, I got a bit concerned. First, he told me that he planned on being married in the next year and that he was tired of having girlfriends. Then, he told me that he wanted two more kids. Yes, more. He also thought I was twenty-five, which was a bit unsettling after he told me that his daughter is twenty-one.
He told me that the Lord had brought us together. He said that, "The Bible says that when a man finds a good woman, he finds a good thing. See, you was just sittin' outside the valet, waiting to be found and I found you." I stopped myself from retorting, "I wasn't lost."
He then told me that he had gotten into an argument with a friend of his--also 41--who idolizes Jill Scott. He idolizes her so much that he has posters on his wall, "like a thirteen year old girl." Sigh. The friend tells the schlump that he'd better be careful and that I'm still fair game, because we're not a couple, yet. Sigh. This is the point where the schump tells me that he's going to make an honest woman out of me. Sigh again.
Fast forward to our second conversation.
The schlump asks me to go out this Thursday. Sticking to my rules, I obliged. He suggests a Neo-Soul lounge. I oblige again. Though this would not be my first choice, I'm going along.
That's when the conversation went from bad to worse:
"Um, I need to tell you something," the schlump says.
"Yes?" I reply, wondering what could possibly come next.
"I don't have a car. I"ll have to take the bus." He answers.
Alas, he will have to take the iron pimp to meet me on our first date. At forty-one.
Long, lingering sigh. I reach for a bottle of Pinot Noir.
M
"Baby, I don't eat vegetables"
We'll call him "J." Robust, J looked like he had never meet a pork chop he didn't like. But, he was also good looking...kind of put me in the mind of Fat Joe. He asked for my number, I obliged, we talked on the phone and decided to go out. I knew pretty early on I'd be in some trouble.
So I tell "J" that I'd had a long day at work and that all I wanted to do was go somewhere casual to have an easy dinner. In my mind, I'm thinking about the new Mediterranean restaurant across the street, or the Thai restaurant around the corner. J asked me if he could join me for dinner and I said "that'd be great!" with the kind of perky enthusiasm usually reserved for cheer coaches and people who own little dogs that fit in purses. I told "J" that I wasn't looking for a fine dining experience, I just wanted to chill and relax.
"J" responded, "So you don't want to go to Applebees?"
Pause. Rewind.
I say that I don't want a fine dining experience. "J" assumes this means I do not want Applebees.
Well, "J" is right. I don't want Applebees. I hate Applebees. But, I'm more concerned that he considers Applebees "fine dining."
I reply, with even more perkiness (I can feel a tiny vein start to throb at the base of my neck), "that's right, I'll probably skip Applebees tonight." "J" asks me where he can meet me, and I thumbing through the restaurant rolodex in my head. As this man finds Applebees "fancy," my internal monologue quickly nixes anything ethnic, any place that prohibits jeans, and searches for places where people spit peanut shells on the floor. I settle on BJ's, thinking that it's the perfect blend of regular man food and food I'll actually eat. BJ's is kind of in between Friday's and J.Alexander. A brewery, BJ's is casual with a pretty comprehensive American fare menu. It also has several large screen TVs around the restaurant, usually playing football or basketball. So, I thought this would be a great, casual place to have a first date.
We get to the restaurant and he starts to pore over the menu. After flipping through several pages of pastas, burgers, pizzas, and chicken wings, he declares, "I don't know what to get. This is kind of fancy."
Pause.
I reply, "Well, I've been here a few times and the food is really good. I'm sure whatever you get will be great" And smile.
He looks lost.
I try again. "Their avocado rolls are absolutely phenomenal. Want to try those as an appetizer?"
His reply: "I don't eat vegetables."
Pause.
Excuse me? What grown up, 35+ does not eat vegetables? I forced my face to remain still, to keep my eyebrows from saying WTF?
So, after a long three second pause, I ask, "Ever?"
"Naw, I don't mess with no vegetables" he says, and clasps his hands on the table.
"On purpose?" I ask, feeling my face start to betray me.
"Naw. Growing up we ate, you know, like regular food. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken. Pork chops. You know, regular food" he says with the kind of seriousness that one would use when telling a guy he only has three months to live.
"Broccoli?" I ask, hoping that he doesn't know that broccoli is a vegetable.
"Naw.Don't like it"
"Spinach?"
"Nope."
"Salad?"
"Yeah, I'll eat salad. With ranch. And cheese. And bacon bits. Oh yeah, I also eat corn. Corn's a vegetable, right?"
At this point the vein has throbbed into full-fledged jump. I'm flabbergasted. So the only "vegetable" this man eats is bastardized with cheese and bacon.
"Well, I have good news," I reply, "you might like the avocado rolls. Avocado's a fruit."
M
*At the end of the date, when the check appeared, he asked me, "So, is this one on you or me?"
So I tell "J" that I'd had a long day at work and that all I wanted to do was go somewhere casual to have an easy dinner. In my mind, I'm thinking about the new Mediterranean restaurant across the street, or the Thai restaurant around the corner. J asked me if he could join me for dinner and I said "that'd be great!" with the kind of perky enthusiasm usually reserved for cheer coaches and people who own little dogs that fit in purses. I told "J" that I wasn't looking for a fine dining experience, I just wanted to chill and relax.
"J" responded, "So you don't want to go to Applebees?"
Pause. Rewind.
I say that I don't want a fine dining experience. "J" assumes this means I do not want Applebees.
Well, "J" is right. I don't want Applebees. I hate Applebees. But, I'm more concerned that he considers Applebees "fine dining."
I reply, with even more perkiness (I can feel a tiny vein start to throb at the base of my neck), "that's right, I'll probably skip Applebees tonight." "J" asks me where he can meet me, and I thumbing through the restaurant rolodex in my head. As this man finds Applebees "fancy," my internal monologue quickly nixes anything ethnic, any place that prohibits jeans, and searches for places where people spit peanut shells on the floor. I settle on BJ's, thinking that it's the perfect blend of regular man food and food I'll actually eat. BJ's is kind of in between Friday's and J.Alexander. A brewery, BJ's is casual with a pretty comprehensive American fare menu. It also has several large screen TVs around the restaurant, usually playing football or basketball. So, I thought this would be a great, casual place to have a first date.
We get to the restaurant and he starts to pore over the menu. After flipping through several pages of pastas, burgers, pizzas, and chicken wings, he declares, "I don't know what to get. This is kind of fancy."
Pause.
I reply, "Well, I've been here a few times and the food is really good. I'm sure whatever you get will be great" And smile.
He looks lost.
I try again. "Their avocado rolls are absolutely phenomenal. Want to try those as an appetizer?"
His reply: "I don't eat vegetables."
Pause.
Excuse me? What grown up, 35+ does not eat vegetables? I forced my face to remain still, to keep my eyebrows from saying WTF?
So, after a long three second pause, I ask, "Ever?"
"Naw, I don't mess with no vegetables" he says, and clasps his hands on the table.
"On purpose?" I ask, feeling my face start to betray me.
"Naw. Growing up we ate, you know, like regular food. Macaroni and cheese. Fried chicken. Pork chops. You know, regular food" he says with the kind of seriousness that one would use when telling a guy he only has three months to live.
"Broccoli?" I ask, hoping that he doesn't know that broccoli is a vegetable.
"Naw.Don't like it"
"Spinach?"
"Nope."
"Salad?"
"Yeah, I'll eat salad. With ranch. And cheese. And bacon bits. Oh yeah, I also eat corn. Corn's a vegetable, right?"
At this point the vein has throbbed into full-fledged jump. I'm flabbergasted. So the only "vegetable" this man eats is bastardized with cheese and bacon.
"Well, I have good news," I reply, "you might like the avocado rolls. Avocado's a fruit."
M
*At the end of the date, when the check appeared, he asked me, "So, is this one on you or me?"
The Guidelines
Evidently, I'm in crisis mode. Defcon Level 5. Red alert. I'm 31, unmarried, unattached, boyfriendless, and left to take out my own trash.
According to Oprah, CNN, and Facebook, I'm in serious trouble. Love trouble.
I'm also college-educated and I hold an advanced degree. Oh yea, I'm also African-American.
My prospects just got bleaker.
So I've decided to dedicate 2011 to love. Mary J. Blige's Real Love. Casablanca love. Hallmark card love. Sixteen-year-old I'll-die-if-I-don't-hear-from-you-every-day-let's-talk-on-the-phone-all-night kind of love.
I also attract weirdos.
The weirdo aspect may make finding love a little more difficult, but maybe not. Perhaps my standards are too high. Perhaps it's too much for me to ask that my potential mi amor have all of his upper molars (more on that later). I got my psychology degree from Dr. Phil, and he's told me that I'm the common denominator in all the dismal experiences I seem to have, so I'm steppin' out on a limb, changin' my game plan.
As such, for the next year I've decided to go out on one date with whomever asks. Whom.Ever.
I've set up a couple of guidelines:
1.) I will give my phone number to whatever man I meet face-to-face and asks. I will not take numbers. If he wants to date me, he must ask.
2.) I will go out on one date to wherever the man suggests. Hiking? Check. McDonalds? Check. Applebees? Check. Church? Okee dokee. The only exception will be dates that I deem potentially unsafe: no first dates at your place or mine to "watch movies."
3.) ? I'll fill this in on a need-to-adjust basis. This is my one emergency rule that I'll create when necessary.
According to Oprah, CNN, and Facebook, I'm in serious trouble. Love trouble.
I'm also college-educated and I hold an advanced degree. Oh yea, I'm also African-American.
My prospects just got bleaker.
So I've decided to dedicate 2011 to love. Mary J. Blige's Real Love. Casablanca love. Hallmark card love. Sixteen-year-old I'll-die-if-I-don't-hear-from-you-every-day-let's-talk-on-the-phone-all-night kind of love.
I also attract weirdos.
The weirdo aspect may make finding love a little more difficult, but maybe not. Perhaps my standards are too high. Perhaps it's too much for me to ask that my potential mi amor have all of his upper molars (more on that later). I got my psychology degree from Dr. Phil, and he's told me that I'm the common denominator in all the dismal experiences I seem to have, so I'm steppin' out on a limb, changin' my game plan.
As such, for the next year I've decided to go out on one date with whomever asks. Whom.Ever.
I've set up a couple of guidelines:
1.) I will give my phone number to whatever man I meet face-to-face and asks. I will not take numbers. If he wants to date me, he must ask.
2.) I will go out on one date to wherever the man suggests. Hiking? Check. McDonalds? Check. Applebees? Check. Church? Okee dokee. The only exception will be dates that I deem potentially unsafe: no first dates at your place or mine to "watch movies."
3.) ? I'll fill this in on a need-to-adjust basis. This is my one emergency rule that I'll create when necessary.
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